


Accidental Aftermath

by Artemis_Dreamer



Series: The Squishy Apocalypse [12]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Drabble, Dubious Biology, Energon, Failed Experiments, Fat Robots, Fluff, I'm Going to Hell, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Weight Gain, Wreckers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-10-10 03:07:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10427775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artemis_Dreamer/pseuds/Artemis_Dreamer
Summary: He had no desire for Bulkhead to see these bizarre changes to his frame, but he knew that avoiding (or worse, lying to) his conjunx would make him no better than a Decepticon – no better than the cowardly, traitorous scum that he had dedicated his function to destroying.---In which Wheeljack's latest invention goes horribly wrong, but Bulkhead doesn't mind in the least. As always, Ratchet is exasperated.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Forgotten_Logic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Forgotten_Logic/gifts).



> WARNING: This is a work of fetish fiction, involving major weight gain.
> 
> Don't like, don't read.

Wheeljack came online slowly and painfully, each of his systems taking the time to run a complete internal diagnostic before rebooting. His processor was throbbing, and there was a tinny ringing in his audios – a sure sign that they had been damaged. Every inch of his plating ached, and his frame felt bizarrely heavy.

As his optics finally came online, Wheeljack found himself staring up at a disturbingly familiar ceiling - the ceiling of the base’s medical bay. 

"Finally," A tart voice cut through the haze of his aching processor, a voice immediately identifiable as Ratchet’s. "You certainly took your sweet time rebooting."

The aged medic abruptly entered Wheeljack's field of vision, scowling down at the Wrecker. He was wielding a handheld scanner the way that some mechs might wield a weapon – aggressively, and with dangerous intent. "The last thing that you need right now is more processor damage." Ratchet snapped, concern evident in his tone. "What possessed you to do a stupid thing like that?"

A thing like what? Wheeljack quickly searched his memory files for any clues about the nature of the incident that had landed him in the medbay. Apparently, he had been working on a metabolic inhibitor, a device that could drastically reduce the amount of energon that a mech required to function. He had integrated the test model into his systems, activated it - 

And immediately been overwhelmed by a desperate craving for energon. A need so powerful that it had physically hurt. He wasn't certain how many cubes he’d consumed before the frelling glitched device had short-circuited, exploding with enough force to knock him offline.

The memory files were somewhat damaged, but they certainly explained his current location, the throbbing ache in his processor, and the stern disapproval of a certain medic. There was nothing that Ratchet loathed more than treating self-inflicted injuries, particularly those caused by stupidity or carelessness.

(And in the medic’s opinion, Wheeljack’s lab accidents qualified as both.)

What the memory files failed to explain was the bizarre heaviness of his frame. Wheeljack abruptly heaved himself into a seated position, intending to check for damage. This action earned him a fresh dent on the helm from Ratchet, who grumbled something about impatient mechs and interrupted scans.

Wheeljack, however, heard none of it. As the Wrecker examined his frame, his optics widened with shock, his processor struggling to comprehend the situation. He was huge. He was frelling huge, and all of that newly acquired mass was in the form of fat. 

His formerly firm plating was now borderline unrecognizable, having been completely enveloped by soft, heavy curves. 

Most prominent was his bulging chassis, which swelled out in thick rolls that settled heavily on his massive thigh struts – all traces of his formerly angular waistline were long gone. Below his thighs, his leg struts were also considerably thicker than before, and judging by the difficulty he had experienced when moving his servos, his arm struts had undergone a similar change. His chestplates had also rounded and softened, the plating jiggling with each exvent that left his massive frame. 

This, of course, was to say nothing of his aft. He didn’t need to be able to see it in order to know that it was absolutely enormous, forming a vast padded cushion at the base of his back plating. It seemed that said back plating was also far softer than before - overlapping rolls had formed along his sides, bulging out above a pair of thick love handles. He was also fairly certain that his faceplates had never before in his function been this plump.

"This has to be a joke.” The wrecker groused, prodding tentatively at his plating in an attempt to assure himself that this drastic change was in fact real. His probing digits sunk deeply into the warm, soft metal – evidently, this was no hologram or hallucination. 

"What you’re seeing is the primary side effect of your failed experiment." Ratchet's tone was disapproving, but there was amusement in his optics. "Tell me something, how does it feel to be even bigger than Bulkhead?" 

Wheeljack flopped back down onto the medical berth with a wordless groan. His frame felt impossibly heavy, his struts and cables aching as they protested such a large and abrupt increase in his mass. How had his experiment gone so completely wrong?

"I’m a medic, ‘Jack, not an engineer." Ratchet scoffed. The Wrecker came to the awkward realization that he'd been thinking out loud, and wondered how much of that disbelieving internal monologue the medic had actually heard. Best not to dwell on it.

As the ringing in his audios finally subsided, Wheeljack could now hear two voices arguing in the hallway outside the medbay. Well, one overly loud voice and one agitated string of binary beeps. He recognized the voice as belonging to Bulkhead – the Wrecker was clearly upset, pleading with the scout to be allowed to see his conjunx.

The inventor exvented heavily. He had no desire for Bulkhead to see these bizarre changes to his frame, but he knew that avoiding (or worse, lying to) his conjunx would make him no better than a Decepticon – no better than the cowardly, traitorous scum that he had dedicated his function to destroying. 

Struggling back into a seated position, Wheeljack called out to his partner, his loud voice carrying clearly into the hallway. “Bulk! Get in here! We need to talk.” A disheartened beep could be heard from Bumblebee as the scout grudgingly relented, finally allowing Bulkhead to enter the medical bay.

The door had barely slid a third of the way open before the Wrecker barged into the room, his protective coding demanding that he ensure his conjunx’s safety right this frelling instant. The Wrecker barged into the room – and staggered to an abrupt halt, his wide optics roaming over Wheeljack’s altered frame.

“Woah…” Bulkhead exvented the word, his tone awestruck.

The inventor shifted uncomfortably under his conjunx’s intense scrutiny, dreading the Wrecker’s next words. Words of disgust. Words of mockery. Words which never came. 

Bulkhead hurried to Wheeljack’s berthside, nearly shoving Ratchet aside in his careless haste. The Wreckers embraced roughly, lipplates crashing together as they sought comfort in one another’s affection. It was a short, violent kiss, but a passionate one nonetheless. As their mouths parted, Bulkhead grinned with abject relief.

“I’m glad you’re in one piece.” He confessed, the anxious waves of his erratically pulsing EM field finally beginning to settle into a relaxed pattern. Bulkhead was in many ways a reckless mech, a mech who cared little for his own safety, but he valued the safety of his conjunx above all else.

“Yeah, I’m in one piece. One really big piece.” Wheeljack grimaced, pulling away from his partner’s embrace and gesturing dismissively to his heavy frame.

Bulkhead’s response was to place his servos on the thick curve of the inventor’s chassis and give the soft plating an experimental squeeze. Before Wheeljack could protest, he squeezed again, albeit with considerably more gentleness. Humming with satisfaction, the Wrecker promptly began to knead and caress his conjunx’s massive stomach, exploring every inch of it with surprising care and affection.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Wheeljack grit out the words, a flush of embarrassment rising to his cheekplates. The only thing stopping the inventor from forcibly removing his conjunx's servos from his frame was how slagging good those gentle touches felt – the vast expanse of his stretched and softened plating had become incredibly sensitive. 

“I like it.” Bulkhead replied matter-of-factly, a grin on his faceplates as he pinched affectionately at a particularly thick roll.

“You’re joking.” The inventor scoffed, scowling mistrustfully at his partner. His frame was a fat, sloppy, disgusting mess, and he could see no reason whatsoever for Bulkhead to tolerate it, never mind to like it.

“I never joke about you.” The Wrecker chuckled, leaning in for another kiss. Rolling his optics, Wheeljack obliged. It was practically impossible to remain angry with a mech as earnest as Bulkhead. 

This kiss was deeper, gentler, and more passionate than the first, the experience enhanced by the continuing caresses of those affectionate servos over that plush chassis. Both mechs groaned into the kiss, pressing their frames closely together. They had only been apart for a few short cycles, but those cycles had been troubling and uncertain. They needed each other now.

A dry cough from Ratchet reminded the Wreckers that they were not alone in the medbay. The amorous mechs hastily cut short their embrace, wilting in shame as the medic glared at them with abject disapproval. 

“There’ll be plenty of time for that once I’m finished with my examination.” Ratchet snapped impatiently. Turning his attention towards Bulkhead, the medic made a shooing gesture. “The sooner you leave, the sooner I can finish these scans. The sooner I finish these scans, the sooner you two can have your fun.”

Bulkhead reluctantly complied, giving his partner’s plating one last affectionate squeeze. As the door slid shut behind the Wrecker, Ratchet met Wheeljack’s optics with a conspiratorial smirk. 

“Of all the mechs in the universe, you managed to find yourself a chubby chaser.” Ratchet shook his helm with disbelief. “You don’t know how lucky you are.”

A lopsided grin spread across the inventor’s faceplates. He knew slag well how lucky he was to have a conjunx like Bulkhead. They were Wreckers, and Wreckers stood together (quite literally) through thick and thin. 

Wait, lucky? Was the medic insinuating –

“Yep.” Ratchet confirmed, his smirk broadening at the sight of his patient’s abject distress. “You’re stuck like this.”

Wheeljack groaned, running an exasperated servo over his faceplates. Slag it all to Pit. Still, he was well aware that the situation could easily have been far worse. He was stuck like this, but his supportive conjunx clearly adored every inch of his altered frame.

Wheeljack’s empty tanks rumbled with hunger, the inventor wincing as they abruptly contracted in a painful spasm. It seemed that his intense craving for energon had returned with a vengeance. He needed fuel – massive quantities of fuel – right frelling now. 

Helpless in the face of such overwhelming need, it was all that the Wrecker could do to cross his digits and hope that his conjunx would still adore every inch of his frame even if it doubled, or possibly even tripled, in size. 

(Because it slag well would.)

**Author's Note:**

> Some squishy Wheeljack for Forgotten_Logic. Thank you so much for your patience!
> 
> Is it just me, or are my fics getting squishier and squishier? I might want to cut back on that a bit - some of these mechs are ending up frelling huge!
> 
> Requests remain closed at this time, but I am actively working on request fics involving the Constructicons, First Aid, and Ratchet/Megatron. 
> 
> As always, any and all feedback is appreciated.


End file.
